


Home

by finsbury_park



Series: Second Chances [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Post-Lethal White
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-11-14 18:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18057482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finsbury_park/pseuds/finsbury_park
Summary: Back in London, Robin and Strike figure out how to make things work.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [A Moveable Feast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840384/chapters/39533452), but it'll mostly make sense without reading it.

Strike reached for two mugs from the kitchen shelf, picking a well-worn, matching pair emblazoned with ‘I love Cornwall.’ The kettle clicked off, and he filled each mug with boiling water, grabbing the milk from the fridge and staring at the counter absentmindedly while he waited for the tea to steep. His inner monologue was filled with Robin. He hadn’t really thought of anything else since they’d returned from Paris. Should he ask her out tonight? Was it too soon? He’d played it cool over the weekend, since the cab had dropped her off at her apartment. Just a few texts about work, even though he’d been itching to call, to text more, to show up at her apartment and kiss her and lift her up on her kitchen counter and run his hands under her blouse and… A drawer closed behind him, breaking his runaway train of thought. He blinked and shook his head, picking up the two mugs and carrying them over to Robin’s desk.

“Plans tonight?” he asked, as he set down her mug.

Robin looked up from her screen, smiling apologetically at him. “Yeah, actually. I’m seeing Vanessa. We haven’t gone out for drinks in ages and we set it up before Paris…” She trailed off, sounding guilty.

Strike sighed heavily as he sat down on the couch. He’d been on his feet all day, tailing a new suspect. The couch protested loudly under his weight. “It’s okay, there’s an Arsenal match at 7. I’ll be just fine.”

Robin stared at him, opening her mouth as if to apologize.

He waved it off with a hand. “Robin, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. We didn’t have plans. Go -- have a good time. Say hi to Vanessa for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He looked at her fondly over his mug, taking a sip of tea.

She looked at her watch and back up at Strike. “I should get going actually, I need to head home before I meet up with her.” Turning off the monitor, she grabbed her purse and stood up, walking hesitantly over to the couch and pausing in front of him. “See you tomorrow?” Her head tilted to the side, adorably, and Strike had to use every ounce of self-control to stay seated on the couch, not to lean forward and pull her down onto his lap. He nodded.

Robin leaned down, resting one hand on the back of the couch, running the other along his jaw, fingers landing at the base of his neck, buried in his unruly curls. She bent her head down and landed a kiss on his mouth, pulling away after a moment, but lingering close, blue-grey eyes gazing into his.  

Strike broke the gaze, leaning forward to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Robin closed the door, and her shadow receded down the stairwell behind the frosted glass, Strike stayed motionless on the couch, holding his mug of tea. Robin’s perfume lingered in the office, and he thought about the last time he’d buried his nose in her hair, in the rented Paris room, filling his senses with her. He was aching to do it again, and the smell was taunting him.

With a frown, he glanced over at her untouched mug of tea on the desk. He’d heard the guilty apology in her voice when she talked about setting up a date with a friend. _What a fucking tosser_. He had no doubt in his mind that Matthew had been a controlling git, isolating Robin from any possible friends. He sighed and leaned his head back against the mock leather. He hoped she had a good time tonight. She needed more friends in London.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mugs are from LulaIsAKitten's [I <3 Cornwall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17917580)


	2. Chapter Two

“Hiya! How's your day going?” Robin shrugged off her dripping coat, hanging it up on the coat tree, and shaking out her damp hair. She walked over to the inner office, peeking around Strike’s door.

He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by disorganized papers and open files. He looked up glumly, running a hand over his scruffy chin. “A bit shit, actually. I'm not getting anywhere with research on the Campbell case. And then I thought I’d catch up on some organizing, but I’m not in the mood today. Been at this bloody desk for too long. You?”

“Well, all Campbell did today was go to work, then I tailed him to a boring work lunch and back to the office. Looked like he was staying late, Andy took over around 4:30. Mind-numbingly boring.” She sighed and sat down on the edge of the desk, jean-clad arse disturbing some files.

“Hey, I’m organizing those,” Strike teased, pulling one out from under her.

“Don’t look very organized to me,” she replied wryly, getting off the desk and heading back out to the outer office. “You want some tea?” she called back over her shoulder.  

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Strike could hear Robin moving around in the kitchen, the comforting sounds of the kettle and some dishes being washed. He sighed, thinking about the impending move they had begun to plan for; the developer was finally moving ahead with demolition plans, and they had a final date to be out of the office in three months. It felt like a long time, but Strike knew it would fly by. He would miss this office, and all the memories it carried; most of them involved Robin. Late nights with shared take-out on a desk, sneaking glances at her face, her rosy cheeks. Long chats about cases on the couch, hands wrapped around mugs of tea, bouncing ideas off her whip-smart brain. The oldest memory; when he’d first met her, and almost knocked her down the stairs.

Robin came back into the room with two mugs of tea, setting one on his desk and sitting back down on the edge of the desk. Strike tried to not stare at her, specifically the spot where just a hint of her lacy blue underwear was peeking out of her jeans, next to a strip of pale skin on her lower back. He pulled his gaze away, eyes sliding back to Robin’s face. She was smiling; he had a feeling she knew exactly what he’d been looking at. He cleared his throat, guiltily. “Where’d you say you’re going for dinner with your Mum?”

“We’re going to try that new Thai restaurant around the corner on Bucknall, Vanessa said it was decent. Anyway, I have an hour to kill, that’s why I came back. Anything you want me to work on?” She took a sip of tea, eyeing the mess of papers on the desk.

“Well. I’m ready to call it a day. Why don’t we take these upstairs? I would really love to get out of this room. Going a bit stir crazy.”

That’s how Robin found herself sat on Strike’s lap, on his tiny, uncomfortable sofa in his dimly lit kitchen-meets-living room. It wasn’t what Strike had in mind when he’d invited her up, really, he just wanted to talk, to be with her some place other than the office. But five minutes after sitting on the sofa together, talking about their days, this had happened. Lips locked together, Robin’s legs were on either side of his large frame, one of his hands tangled in her hair and the other on her arse, her hands firmly on his chest, grasping at his shirt, pulling him closer.

Robin felt an insistent vibration against her leg. Strike gently pushed her back, breaking the kiss. “Robin, your phone.”

Robin rolled her eyes and buried her face in his shoulder, kissing her way up to the spot behind his ear, stubbornly ignoring the vibrations. Strike sighed in satisfaction, but turned his face into her red-gold hair and murmured, “shouldn't you get that?”

“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” she said into his neck. The phone fell silent and Strike let out another sigh, his head dropping back into the couch as Robin kissed her way down his neck and collarbone, his hands firmly on her arse, pulling her closer to him as he imagined the lacy blue underwear he knew was under those jeans.

Another vibration against his leg, and his head snapped up. “Robin, you should get that.”

With a frustrated sigh, Robin abandoned Strike’s collarbone and sat up, tugging her phone out of her pocket. As she looked at the screen, her face was lit up and Strike felt a stab in his solar plexus. It washed over him, that this beautiful woman was his, or at least his in the sense of _his_ to kiss, to make laugh, to spend time with, to fall asleep next to. It took his breath away.

Robin made a face at the screen and swiped to answer, voice bright all of a sudden. “Hi Mum, what’s up? What? No, we said seven. Six, really?” _Shit_ , she mouthed to Strike. “Well I’m just around the corner at the office, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Strike could hear Robin’s mum’s voice on the other end, asking about the menu, if Robin wanted her to order something. Robin looked down at Strike awkwardly, suddenly realizing that she was still pressed against him, her shirt askew, in a very compromising position, and that her mum was talking about spring rolls in her ear. She cut her off. “Mum, I’ve got to go. Order whatever you like, I’m sure I’ll love it. See you in five.” She hung up, looking apologetically at Strike. “Sorry. I've got to go. Rain cheque? Tomorrow night?”

He kissed her. “That sounds perfect.” Robin untangled herself from Strike’s lap, fixing her clothes and walking to the door, grabbing her purse. Strike followed her. She turned back, hand on the doorknob, and he reached out, smoothing a lock of her tousled hair. “Have a great dinner. Say hi to your mum for me.” Robin smiled, and turned to go. As her steps receded down the stairs, he closed the door and leaned his head against the wall, taking a deep breath. He wondered when she would stop having such an extreme, albeit pleasurable effect on him, taking over his brain and flooding him with an electric current. He pulled his head up with another sigh, and set about making himself dinner.


	3. Chapter Three

Robin closed the file she had been working on, pushing it to the side of the desk. She stretched her arms over her head, then pushed back her chair and crossed the room to make herself a cup of tea. It had been a productive but lonely day; Strike had been out at a meeting with a new client, followed by staking out a strip club. She’d offered to stay back at the office - it seemed like he’d been frustrated by being stuck at his desk the previous day, and she’d been happy to put her feet up, do some research and catch up on the books. As she sat back at her desk, mug of tea in hand, her phone buzzed from underneath a stack of papers. She fished it out, turning it over and saw a text from Strike.

_I’m really sorry to do this, but I have to cancel on tonight. Shanker needs me to do him a favour and I owe him one._

Robin stared at her phone, her smile at seeing Strike’s name fading into a small frown as she read the message.

She’d shaved her legs, she’d pulled out a particularly small and lacy pair of knickers, and she’d been looking forward to seeing him all day. She sighed, typing out a reply.

_It’s okay, now it’s my turn for a rain cheque. Friday?_

Then, thinking about what a favour for Shanker might entail, she added another text.

_Whatever you’re helping him with, I hope it’s not too dangerous._

She stared at her phone, waiting for a reply.

_Just a ride, nothing risky. Why not rain cheque Thursday?_

Robin rolled her eyes.

_You’re tailing Redhead II, remember?_

As she waited for a reply, she took a sip of her tea, thinking about what his face might look like right now, as he remembered he’d offered to take the first shift. Every Thursday for the foreseeable future, they’d be staking out Redhead II’s pottery class, followed by tailing her home. It was a boring, needless job, but her suspicious husband was paying well. For a moment she thought about offering to go with him, but quickly changed her mind. It seemed childish, needy even, to offer to spend hours of her time with him, not to mention it being work time. It’s not like they could charge the client for both of their services.

Anyways, hours in dark car, sitting next to him, it sounded ... dangerous. They’d only lasted five minutes on his couch the other night. She’d been trying so hard to just talk to him about his day, but her eyes kept wandering, dragged down to his lips, his hands; the things they’d done to her and the way they’d made her feel. She had quickly given up her resolve and climbed across the couch to settle on his lap, smiling at the amused but appreciative look on Strike’s face. After that she had stopped thinking altogether.

Her phone buzzed again, pulling her attention back.

_Shit. I forgot. Okay, Friday it is._

Robin smiled, and slipped her phone in her purse. It buzzed again, and she pulled it back out.

_And just so you know, I was really looking forward to seeing you tonight. Xxx_

She grinned.

_Me too. Friday. Xxx_

\-------

Strike drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, absentmindedly humming along to the radio. Rain fell loudly on the windshield, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself. It was unseasonably cold for September, and he thought longingly of the weather in Paris, how warm and sunny it had been. That train of thought immediately lead him to Robin, freckled shoulders on display in a summer dress, which of course led him to remembering the warm night breeze,  as he lay in bed with her naked in his arms.

 _Damn_. He’d been unable to concentrate for more that ten minutes - this entire week - without his thoughts straying into racy territory. It wasn’t that he minded; it was just hard to get anything done, and he felt slightly depraved, sitting in his office, steps away from the real Robin, while naked Robin cavorted through his unruly thoughts. He sighed, scratching his day-old beard. He’d carefully shaved yesterday, ready for their date, not that he would have stayed smooth-cheeked until dinner.  

Strike squinted through the rain-splattered windshield, scanning the community centre and parking lot across the street. It was pointless; the class didn’t end for another twenty minutes, and he guessed Redhead II would appear exactly when it was over.

Strike leaned forward, changing the radio station to something less obnoxious, and reached for the bag of crisps he’d been holding out on. As he popped a handful in his mouth, he thought about Robin again. _Why not_ , he’d nothing else to do while he waited.

This inability to get her out of his mind; he knew it would fade, but for now, it was overwhelming. Had he ever felt like this before? In the beginning, with Charlotte - it had been intoxicating, and their initial attraction was magnetic and powerful - but like this? He remembered feeling nervous, on edge, as if he was in danger of losing her at any second; as if she was too good for him, too beautiful, too rich. Robin was - different. It always came down to this. He wasn’t worried about saying the wrong thing, about changing himself for her; she’d never asked him to change, not when he’d been her work partner and friend, and he doubted that would change now.

Despite his confidence about their mutual attraction, there was still a small, nagging feeling that he was doing his best to ignore. Without any other distractions, these inadequate feelings fought their way to the surface - was he too old for her? And he knew she didn’t care about the leg, about his fucked-up family, but did they really want the same things out of life? It seemed like Matthew had wanted a conventional wife, someone that didn't outshine him professionally, someone who wanted 2.5 kids and a cute dog and a nice house near nice schools. And Robin had left him - was that only because he had cheated on her? ( _What a fucking idiot_ \- Strike spent so much of his time dealing with infidelity, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around how someone could cheat on a woman as perfect as Robin - not once, but twice.) Or did Robin leave him because she had different goals? He guessed it was a combination of the two, but he wasn’t quite sure.

He thought back to a picnic in Paris, sitting with Robin in front of Sacre-Coeur, and her slightly tipsy confession about what her type was, and what she thought about fairy-tale endings and soulmates. _And then someone comes along and blows that all apart. The exact opposite of what you’re looking for turns out to be the person for you._ His spirits lifted, and then plummeted again, as he remembered another nagging question. Did she want kids? He suddenly longed for pint. Or four.

Outside, the rain was finally slowing, and the sun appeared to be attempting to come out from behind a curtain of clouds. He was probably crazy to be thinking about this, but then again he was crazy about her; he knew he would happily spend the rest of his life with her. But did that future include children? She seemed like the type of person who would want to have a child; warm and loving, organized and empathic. He’d always been firm on the idea that he never wanted children, owing to a mixture of his own childhood experiences, his doubt in his own possible abilities as a father, and his discomfort around other people’s children. But he’d felt his resolve slipping these past few years, and his improved relationships with Lucy and Jack were further confusing him. Strike sighed, leaning forward and resting his head on the steering wheel of the BMW. Was this really something he should be thinking about when they'd only slept together a handful of times and been on one real date?

Strike’s phone buzzed on the passenger seat, and he reached for it, heart lifting at the sight of Robin’s name on the notification. All the heavy, life-altering thoughts that had been filling his mind suddenly seemed very distant.

_Died of boredom yet?_

_Nope. I’ve got crisps and I’m thinking about you. But I am glad it’s your turn next week._

_Only good things I hope. Can’t wait for my turn. You almost done?_

He still couldn’t get over this new-found ability to be able to say what was on his mind. Or at least parts of it. The reserve he’d held towards her personal life had been totally shattered by the events in Paris, but he still felt a sense of hesitation, a careful trepidation every time he flirted with her, every time he stepped into the role of a different kind of partner. He typed out a reply.

_Class should be over in the next few minutes, then I’ll tail her home. And then I’ll finally be free. What are you up to tonight?_

_In my pyjamas, catching up on Dr. Who and making spaghetti. Jealous?_

_Incredibly. If you replace Dr. Who with a football match._

_Never._

_One day I’ll convince you otherwise._

_Best of luck to you._

_Ha ha. Gotta go - see you tomorrow. Xxx_

_Get home safe. Xxx_

Strike smiled goofily at his phone, and looked up just in time to see a door opening at the community centre. Redhead II appeared, followed by a pair of older women. It had finally stopping raining, just in time for the late-summer sun to show it’s face before sunset. As Redhead reached the parking lot, she turned to wave at the women, then headed to a small car. Strike started the engine on the BMW, idling until the car had pulled out of the parking lot and disappeared around the corner. He pulled out of his spot and followed her, pulling down the visor against the sunset, smiling as he thought about how the sun would look glinting off Robin’s red-gold hair.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really loved fox_in_the_snow's [A Drowning Grip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18124796), especially the dialogue about the backstory on some of Robin's possible interests (crossing my fingers for more Robin backstory in the next book) so I tossed in the Dr. Who thing. I definitely think Robin would watch Dr. Who.


	4. Chapter Four

“Cheers.” Strike set a white wine down in front of Robin, settling himself back onto his stool with a sigh and taking a long draught of his pint. “I feel like I should have taken you somewhere nicer…” He trailed off, looking at the table, worried expression on his face. 

Robin rolled her eyes. “By nicer, do you mean more expensive? Bollocks to that, all I really want right now is a glass of wine and a bowl of chips. And to get to see you in more than passing.” She flashed a cheeky smile at him. The Tottenham was full and comfortable tonight, all warm wood and well-worn upholstery, with a pleasant aroma of fried potatoes and beer lingering in the air. 

Strike took another long sip, raising his eyebrows at her over the edge of his glass.

She looked back at him, resolutely. “Seriously, Cormoran. I don’t care about that kind of thing. I mean, sure, romance is nice, but you don’t have to spend money to be romantic. And this is practical. And comfortable. And there’s nothing wrong with having a date at the Tottenham.” 

“Okay. Point taken. And I already put an order in for chips.”

Robin smiled broadly. “Am I that predictable?” 

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. He took another long draught, trying to calm his nerves. He was feeling giddy about actually being on a date with Robin. In London. This was really real. He almost needed to pinch himself, but settled for finishing off his first pint, hoping it would take the edge off.  

Robin sipped her wine, then leaned forward on her elbows, head on her hands. “So - Campbell finally deviated from his boring schedule - did you get anything good on him?” 

“Nothing yet, but it’s looking up. Hey, can we --,” he paused, unsure of how to say this without sounding rude, “can we not talk about work? Not that I don’t love to go over things with you, you are my favourite person to talk things out with, but I want this to be different. Like, not just another night at the Tottenham after work.” 

“I hate to break it to you, but we are at the Tottenham after work.” 

“I know, but --” 

Robin pushed herself out of her stool and leaned across the table, almost knocking over her glass of wine, and planted a kiss full on his mouth, lingering a moment to deepen the kiss. Finally, she broke away, sitting back down on her stool, eyes bright. Strike had been taken off guard, and now he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face. She gazed back at him, eyes blazing. “See, it is different.” Her expression softened. “And I know what you’re trying to say. So is this a dating rule we want? No work talk on dates?” 

Strike pulled himself back together. “Well, it might help draw a distinction between being at work and not being work. I’m not very good at leaving my job at work. It’s kind of impossible with what we do. 

“Well.” Robin looked thoughtful. “We could try. Anyway, you know this rule isn’t going to last very long. At some point another big case is going to come around and we’re not going to be able to stop thinking about it.” She paused and took a sip of wine. “But I’m not exactly losing sleep over Redhead II’s imaginary infidelities or Campbell’s money laundering, so - sure - no more work talk tonight.” 

Strike nodded, smiling, and eased himself off his stool. “I’m going to grab another pint and check on your chips, be right back.” 

Robin watched him walk away from the table, appreciating his broad shoulders and muscular arms, sighing contentedly into her wine. All week, she’d felt like the more she wanted to see him, the more elusive he’d been, their schedules at complete odds with each other. It’s not that she wanted to spend every moment with him, she thought, but this week had felt like it had stretched on for ages, and she was so happy to finally just be here, sitting across from him. Not to mention the possibility of going home with him after. It had been - how long? She and Matt hadn’t exactly been sleeping together regularly the last few months before they split, and that had been over a year ago.  _ Too long _ , she thought. Sleeping with Strike in Paris had opened her eyes to what being with a partner who cared about her enjoyment was like, someone who was open and adventuresome and passionate and… 

“Chips?” Strike set down a bowl of steaming potatoes in front of her, a perfect shade of golden brown, along with a second pint for himself. Robin looked up, a blush spreading across her cheeks, shaking her head to clear her thoughts.

“Thanks,” she said brightly, “have some too, we can always order more.” She tucked her red-gold hair behind her ears and took a long sip of wine before starting in on the chips.    

Strike smiled fondly at her, wondering why she was blushing. Could she be feeling as nervous and excited as he was? He cast around for a non-work related topic. “So, how’s your Mum? You never told me how dinner went on Wednesday.”

Three hours later, after they had gone through four pints of beer, three glasses of white wine, and two more bowls of chips, the Tottenham was quiet and uncharacteristically deserted. Robin and Strike still sat at the same table, but were quite a bit more drunk and comfortable with each other than they had been three hours prior. Secrets had been shared (Robin’s first kiss, surprisingly not Matthew, and Strike’s, not surprisingly with a girl two years his senior), mysteries had been revealed (why Strike had taught himself Latin in uni, something for Robin to pour over later in private), and concessions had been made (it was impossible not to mention or talk about their exes, and neither of them minded, considering they’d spent the better part of the last two decades with them). Neither one of them could believe how quickly the evening had past, with conversation comfortable and fluid, getting more flirtatious and humorous with each passing drink. It felt as if they were finally shaking off the profound reserve they had held for each other's personal lives for so long.  

Strike glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty. He looked up at Robin. “Want another round?” 

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I need any more wine. And I definitely don’t need any more chips.” She looked pointedly at the three empty bowls.  

“Alright, I just need a piss, then we can head out.” Strike headed off to the loo, while Robin checked her phone, realizing it was the first time she’d even glanced at it in the past three hours. There was a text from Vanessa. 

_ Drinks tomorrow night? _

Robin smiled and tapped out a reply. 

_ Yes! I actually have something pretty exciting to tell you.  _

She hadn’t told Vanessa about Strike when she’d seen her earlier in the week, and she’d been feeling a little guilty about it. It had just felt too new; Robin herself could hardly believe it had happened, and she wasn’t ready to bring it out into the open and examine it with someone else. But now she realized she just really needed to tell  _ someone _ . And Vanessa would be the perfect person. 

_ You’re just going to leave me hanging? _

_ Lol, yes. It’ll be better in person. Let me know where you’d like to go - I’m free any time in the evening. See you tomorrow!  _

Robin slipped her phone back into her pocket, just as Strike returned from the toilet.  

Robin got up to put on her coat. “Did you already pay?” 

“Yeah, too late. You can get the next one.” 

They walked outside into the cool night air, and Robin pulled her coat tighter around her. Continuing a conversation they’d started inside, Strike gently took Robin’s hand in his, as if it was the most normal and commonplace thing to do, and Robin’s heart skipped a beat at the feel of his heavy, warm hand wrapped around hers. As the conversation died out, they walked in silence down the street, hand in hand. Strike realized they were walking towards the office, which meant they were heading to his flat. He paused, and Robin stopped with him. 

Strike opened his mouth as if about to say something, but then closed it, glancing at the ground and them back up at Robin. She was looking at him with an amused look on her face. 

“You don’t have to worry about being too forward and asking me back to your place. You do remember we’ve already slept together? More than once?” 

He smiled, surprised. “I thought maybe you might… would you rather go to your place?” 

“Why on earth would we do that, we're a block from the office.” 

“Well.” He looked at the ground again.  

“Do you not want me to come over? Do you not want -- ” She had a confused, slightly hurt look on her face. 

Strike shook his head quickly. “No, that's not it at all, it’s just my place, it’s really small. I don’t really have people over.” He stopped, looking at the ground again, as if there was an explanation on the pavement. “I've never. Had people over - not even Nick or Ilsa.” 

Robin huffed, exasperated. “I was just at your place on Tuesday. Anyway, we already talked about this.” 

“We -- we did?” 

“I don’t care about that stuff - fancy dinners, expensive apartments in the right part of London - and I just spent a decade with someone who measured our relationship with that kind of shit, so I’d really love a change. But if you think I’m impressed by that kind of thing, then maybe -- “

“Robin!” He cut her off, and she stared back at him, cheeks flushed. That angry, headstrong Robin was back and he loved it, almost as much as he loved figuring-out-a-mystery Robin, or blushing-embarrassed Robin. Who was he kidding, he thought, he loved all of them, equally and irrevocably. A smile spread across his face, and he chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound in the quiet London street.

“Why are you laughing?” She crossed her arms, haughtily.  

“It's your accent, it -- it gets stronger. When you're mad.”

“No it doesn't.” 

“Yes, it does,” he said gently, stepping closer and putting his hands firmly on either side of her, resting on her upper arms. He peered down into her face with a fond, apologetic expression. He continued.  “You're right. I know you don't care about that stuff and I don't either. I’m sorry.” He had an inkling why he’d reacted like this - he'd spent so much time with a woman who held wealth and status in high regard, it was hard to readjust, even years after that particular relationship had failed. He looked into Robin’s blue-grey eyes and continued softly, letting his hands run down her arms and taking her hands in his. “Now can you cheer the fuck up and come back to my place?” 

The corner of Robin’s mouth twitched. “Fine. I thought you’d never ask.” 

Strike let go of one of her hands, and led the way, still holding tight to the other. They walked the last block to the office like that, hand in hand, stealing small glances and smiles at each other every few steps. 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break! Life got in the way.

Robin followed Strike up to his flat, heels echoing off the metal stairs. Strike paused outside the door, searching his pocket for keys. He fished them out, and clumsily unlocked the door. Robin looked at his broad shoulders, the scruffy curls at the bottom of his hairline and fought the urge to reach up and run her fingertips through them. Could he be nervous? This giant, brave, surly man who’d slept with supermodels and socialites; it seemed ridiculous. Yet she had the feeling he was unsure of himself, bashful, almost. _She_ certainly felt off-kilter; she knew they’d already crossed this boundary, seen each other naked, spent the night in each others’ arms, but somehow, being in his flat felt different. It was as if Paris had been a dream, but now this, _this_ was real life. Perhaps it was it time to try something new, to be more forward, she thought, as butterflies swooped around her stomach. It had worked in Paris, and the memory brought a small smile to her face. 

Following him inside, Robin turned and closed the door, eyes sweeping around the flat as she turned back to him. It was so orderly and neat; dishes drying in the rack, countertop wiped down and clean. Strike’s army habits were on full display. He flicked on a dim light in the kitchen, shrugging off his coat and draping it over a kitchen chair, and turned back to Robin. 

“Do you want tea?” He took a step towards the kettle, looking hesitantly at Robin. 

Robin rolled her eyes at him, letting out a huff of air. “No.” He was being infuriatingly restrained. She’d been unable to get him out of her head all week, and now they were finally alone together in his flat, and he was asking about tea. 

“Oh.” He stared at her for a moment, a confused look on his face. 

“ _You_ , Cormoran, I want you.”

His hand dropped from his hair, when he’d been absentmindedly scratching his head. His gaze darkened, but he didn’t move, as if he was rooted to the floor. 

Robin shrugged off her coat, turning slightly to hang it on the back of the door. She turned back to face Strike, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t think you invited me back to your place for tea.” 

Strike swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well, then.” An expectant pause hung in the room. Robin gazed into his dark eyes, bringing her hands up to her blouse and beginning to undo the top button. Her eyebrow raised, just a fraction, and she bit back a smile. “Do I have to take my clothes off for you to --” 

Strike had crossed the room in two strides and Robin found she didn’t need to finish the sentence, because he was pinning her to the door, mouth hot against hers, hands everywhere at once, the full weight of his body pressing her against the panelled wood. It was as if she flipped a switch on him and it was everything she’d been longing for all week. 

Strike’s hands ran roughly up her sides, catching her arms and raising them up, pinning them above her head by her wrists. He held them there with a firm grip of one hand, the other dragging roughly down her body, over her hair, cupping her cheek and pulling her face tight to his, then down over her collarbone to her breast. The entire time his mouth slanted against hers, catching her lip in his teeth, then stroking her tongue with his, until she gasped when the hand that was cupping her breast found her nipple, brushing against it with his thumb. She broke away from his kisses and her head dropped back against the door, body arching into his. Strike pulled back a fraction, gaze dark and heated, taking in her face hungrily. Then he moved to her neck, burying his face in her hair, kissing and biting his way across her shoulder. 

“Robin,” he paused, pulling his mouth away from her skin and taking a shaky breath. He gazed into her face. “Is this too much?”

“It's exactly what I want,” she replied, voice low and hoarse. 

“You sure?” He leaned back a bit, raising an eyebrow, searching her face. 

“Yes,” she huffed, frustrated and needy. “I’ve wanted this all week. Wanted you,” she corrected herself. “So would you please just keep doing what you’re doing. And stop talking.” Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward to try and kiss him. But Strike pulled back, and Robin, arms still pinned above her head, couldn’t reach his mouth. Her eyes narrowed, annoyed, but her mouth bit back a smile. 

Strike was still stuck on what she’d just said. “You’ve been thinking about me all week?”

“Yes,” she retorted, still frustrated. “But you weren’t talking as much in my imagination.” 

A smile spread across his face as he leaned in. “What was I doing?” he whispered into her ear, nudging her cheek with his nose, breath warm on her skin.  

Robin was silent, so Strike pulled back again, checking her expression; it was stormy and defiant, her blue-grey eyes roving over his lips, coming up to rest hungrily on his eyes. She paused a long beat. “You were fucking me.” 

The change in his expression was sudden, hearing her say it so boldly, with the accent he loved so much. Robin took advantage of his off-kilter moment, and wiggled her wrists out of his grasp, grabbing his large hand as she pulled herself out from underneath the weight of his body. She pulled him around the corner, shutting off the light switch as they passed, and into the bedroom, where she pushed him gently onto the bed. He sat down heavily, and groaned as soon as he saw her stepping back from him, just out of reach. 

Robin’s eyes quickly took her new surroundings; the bed was made neatly, with a dark, checkered duvet. A handful of books were stacked on a bedside table next to the bed, with a small lamp. Some laundry lay folded in a basket on the floor, ready to be put away. She felt a surge of emotion, that he’d brought her into his apartment, despite his embarrassment and stubborn independence. And now she was in his room, and it felt so intimate and private. Her eyes fell on Strike, sat on the bed, hands grasping the comforter by his thighs, eyes glued to hers, hungry and waiting.  

As she slowly undid the buttons on her blouse, she gazed at him and realized she’d never done this before, been the one in charge. She’d always deferred to Matt, let him make decisions about when and where and how; this opportunity to change roles was thrilling, and it was turning her on more than she thought possible.  

Robin shrugged off her blouse and let it fall to the floor, baring a green, sheer lace bra. Her hands slowly moved to her trousers, as she watched Strike’s gaze rove over breasts. She could see his hands flexing, clenching the blanket in an effort of self control. She smiled, wavering between shyness and excitement, and unbuttoned her trousers, pushing them down and kicking them off to the side. Straightening up, she ran a hand through her hair, taking out the low ponytail and shaking her red-gold tresses loose.  

Smiling as she looked at Strike, Robin took in his gaze; his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling, dark eyes roving up and down her body. Every time she’d allowed herself to picture these moments, she imagined feeling shy or inadequate; almost naked, stood in front of him. Yet she felt the exact opposite; she was a different person than she’d been used to playing in the bedroom. More herself, more comfortable, just more. 


End file.
